


Visceral

by ospreyx



Category: RWBY
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Withdrawal, Character Death, Emetophobia, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: The air is thick, heavy, punctuated only by the rattling breaths he takes. Qrow is jerked back into some vague semblance of lucidity by the stinger that nudges just under his chin, and he lifts his head as he's instructed to.“Oh,” Tyrian breathes, a hint of reverence in him as if this is a sight to behold. Lips pull back, something like a smile, everything like a predator baring its teeth. “You just won’t sing.”
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	Visceral

**Author's Note:**

> a prompt that was given to me by a close friend of mine ♡ thanks for enabling me, this was fun to toy with :))))
> 
> that being said, read the tags. heed the warnings. it gets a _little_ messy ♡

Mantle is never as silent as this.

Fluorescent lights glow softly against the snow, a lazy pulse and flash in time with the beat of the music that bleeds out through the walls of the nearby club. The street is deserted, with fires left to dwindle and snow left to pile on forgotten perches. Without the music or the sharp-edged whisper of the unforgiving breeze that grows harsher as the night wears on, there would be silence, and Qrow knows better than to trust the silence.

But he doesn’t leave, even if everything in him demands that he does. He merely shifts from one foot to the other, clawed and curled delicately against the curve of the street lamp, and waits for the night to come to an end.

He doesn’t mean to fret. Truly, he doesn’t, but after two years of washing out stains of crimson and holding the kids together as best as he could, it feels like a given. None of them have ever noticed the crow that never lingers very far from them on their weekly nights out to Mantle. No one has ever questioned the lone crow that sits dutifully atop of a street lamp.

What he watches for, what he waits for, no one knows. For a long time, no one knows, and he’s happy that it stays that way for as long as it does.

The wait is long, but he will wait a thousand lifetimes if that means that the kids are safe. They’re strong, he knows, they’re far from incapable, but nothing quells the knee-jerk urge to slip out from his window and delve low into the depths of Mantle to find them. He knows they can fight, knows they can win, but nothing can quite dim the memory of Weiss stumbling out of the club half-coherent and bleary-eyed just last month.

It’s their first night out since then, and as always, Qrow perches outside. Periodically, he shifts and preens, subtly glances down the street and back again, but there’s nothing there to greet him. Nothing stares back at him despite the constant urge that he feels to glance over his shoulder. Perhaps it’s the silence. Perhaps it’s the cold, the faint music, the fear that another one of his kids will come stumbling out of the club again.

He’s in the middle of tugging out a loose tail feather when something pierces his wing.

An undignified squawk leaves him. On instinct, he spreads his wings and takes flight, but already, the world is tilting sharply left until he can’t hold on any longer. He blinks, sees nothing but whirling white, dancing lights, takes a breath heavier than gravity and thicker than sand.

He doesn’t register the faint crack of aura that shimmers and sparks when he hits the concrete. He turns onto his side, no longer small and hollow but whole and lithe. The ground spins, lurches, melts alongside him. He has half the mind to take out the needle, however pointless it is. 

He’s only dimly aware of the boots that walk leisurely towards him.

* * *

For the first time since arriving to Atlas, Qrow does not return home for the night.

It’s not a particularly jarring situation. They have been by each other’s side long enough for James to know with a certainty like none other than Qrow will return, either once he’s done sulking or once he’s dealt enough property damage. He knows just as he knows how to breathe, innately, irrevocably - but that faith does not stem to their recent partner.

“He isn’t back yet,” Clover says to him the next day, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. He wonders vaguely, with a twinge at his temple, when it is that Clover started intentionally playing with fire. “He isn’t answering our calls, either.”

That isn’t new, either, but James can’t exactly fault him for worrying. He hasn’t had years of searching old alleyways or patching up careless wounds that normally would have been avoided if it wasn’t for the liquor licking like flames through Qrow’s veins. With a slow, measured inhale, James turns back to the paperwork at hand. In particular, more pressure from Mantle, more fuel to the fire, more padding to the inevitable smear campaigns.

If he wasn’t biased, he would have dismissed Clover the moment he spoke out of line.

“Knowing him, he’s somewhere in Mantle,” James idly murmurs. “The disappearing act never does last.”

He doesn’t need to look up to know that Clover picked up the implication he intentionally put down. He hears it in the sharp inhale, normally imperceptible were it not for the frigid silence of his office. Except a moment doesn’t pass before Clover’s speaking again, demanding, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

It isn’t voiced as a question, instead framed as an accusation. There are none of the necessary honorifics, nothing close to the demeanor they’ve agreed to adopt during the work day. It’s almost laughable, this blatant offense, this breach of the strict rules they set the moment this arrangement began. Perhaps Qrow is rubbing off on Clover more than he was willing to accept. 

More than Clover was willing to admit, as well.

But there is no denying it, especially not now. This is exactly the kind of thing that James worried about, months ago when Qrow first asked _why not_ , asked _why shouldn’t we_. This was the kind of thing that he expected, because these two of them work startlingly well together - Qrow and Clover meeting was not cataclysmic like the convergence of celestial bodies, but it did shake the throne that James once thought immovable, infallible.

Because once upon a time, something like this was unfathomable. Once upon a time, anything between them before Qrow was a far-fetched fantasy, because neither of them knew how to breach that barrier, break that unspoken rule, cross that line in the sand that both parties understood should never be crossed. Rules come first, and order follows shortly after, and for a long time, James understood it as something that could never be helped.

What he didn’t remember until recently is that there is one thing that Qrow is particularly good at, and that is breaking every rule in existence.

Evidently, between the two of them, it started with Clover.

“Qrow’s missing,” Clover deadpans, incredulous enough for James to finally glance up at him, “and your first thought is to blame him for _relapsing?_ ”

James doesn’t immediately recognize what it is that prickles beneath his skin - either indignance or frustration, he isn’t entirely sure. All he knows is that the ache behind his eyes _throbs_ , and he doesn’t have the time or the patience for this.

“You haven’t known him for as long as I have, Specialist.”

His tone is level, cold, a warning call meant to remind him of the lines still there, the rules, the boundaries pushed too hard. Clover’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he recollects himself. He straightens, picture-perfect and practiced, the soldier he’s meant to be when he’s in his General’s presence.

Just as evenly, he says, “With all due respect, _sir,_ I don’t believe you know him at all if you didn’t see the progress he’s made.”

“ _Clover._ ” 

It’s cold, almost sharp enough to draw blood - not a plea, but a _warning_. Clover sets his jaw, doesn’t breathe against the careful stillness, doesn’t dare say a word. Though in a way, he’s right, as much as James hates to admit it; if there is anything particularly jarring about Qrow in the past few months, it’s how much he’s changed. 

After a long, steadying sigh, James relents and says, “We’ll look tonight.”

Clover softens with what James can only guess is relief. “Thank you.”

* * *

He doesn’t come to naturally. 

Rather, he’s wrenched out from the gravity of abyssal depths and endless sand before he’s prepared for it. Clarity comes gradually in frayed patches; his head is pounding from the start, his eyes burning, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin, but despite the golden eyes that watch him or the stinger that looms ever closer as time drags on, he knows it isn’t poison.

He’d recognize if it was poison.

Qrow isn’t alone the first time he wakes, or any other time after that. He fights, because that’s all there is left to do. He fights, even if it angers his captor further, because he isn’t one to give up so easily. He fights against the sedatives, fights until the moment they wear off, fights until his Aura finally shatters.

Tyrian knows that, though. He’s known from the start. Because if there is one thing Qrow is particularly skilled at, it is running, but there is no advantage here when his one and only trump card has already been burned to ash. There is no element of surprise, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to transform.

That also doesn’t stop the metal back of Tyrian’s stinger from slamming him back against the ground and dislocating one paper-thin kneecap in the process.

He soon loses track of time, because there is no sense of time, not anymore, not once the interrogation actually begins. 

The air is thick, heavy, punctuated only by the rattling breaths he takes. A renewed froth of blood paints the corners of his lips pink, adding to the trail of gore that has already dried from his split lip. He isn’t close to passing out just yet, though, even with the drugs forced into his veins and the blood that cakes his skin, because he has never been so easy to break.

He’s malleable, not breakable; he’s been through worse, done a lot worse.

So he stays silent.

He’s silent through the worst of it. He’s silent when it somehow worsens after that. This late into the game, with a needle periodically shoved under his skin and the pointed edge of an artificial stinger held to his throat to keep him fighting to stay awake, his Aura has already been shattered. There’s welts across his shoulders that cannot mend themselves; there are lattices of bloodied ribbons down the curve of his back, painting bruised and untouched skin alike scarlet until it became evident that even that wasn’t enough for him to talk.

Nausea is a relentless thing, scathing in the back of his throat and leaving him dizzy the entire time. He is not made out of glass, but he feels like he is, quaking like a leaf against renewed restraints despite the way it makes his wounds sting and his knee ache with a heartbeat. He doesn’t know how long he sleeps in the chair he’s fastened to - how long he’s passed out for - before he’s dragged back to the living again.

This time, it’s by the cruel bend of each finger backwards until they finally snap, one by one until there is nothing left to lose.

Qrow’s throat is raw by the end of it, but nevertheless, he never answers a single question.

His head hangs low. His bangs are plastered to his forehead. His breaths are soft, tremulous, as if each one is a struggle of its own to take. There are flames beneath his skin, pinpricks down to the very linings of his bones, a pulse in every shattered joint and torn stretch of flesh. Each broken finger pulses hot like blood until they grow numb altogether, both a blessing and a curse that Qrow can’t find in himself to worry about anymore.

Soon, Tyrian returns from wherever he stalked off to. Qrow is jerked back into some vague semblance of lucidity by the curved edge of the stinger that nudges just under his chin. The cool stretch of metal is a relief, but he wishes it wasn’t. Wishes he had it in himself to snap and thrash just as he did when he first arrived, but he only has half the mind to lift his head as he’s instructed to.

“Oh,” Tyrian breathes, a hint of reverence in him as if this is a sight to behold. Lips pull back, something like a smile, everything like a predator baring its teeth. “You just won’t sing.”

“Fuck you,” Qrow rasps, thin and hollow and just shy of broken. 

Something like amusement burns bright in Tyrian’s eyes before he withdraws the stinger. “I believe you need a little _persuasion._ ” 

That’s when Qrow notices what occupies Tyrian’s hands. He catches the glint of the dim lighting above against the glass before two fingers are shoved into his mouth.

Next comes the bottleneck.

Instantly, he recoils, gags against the liquor forced down his throat when he refuses to swallow at first. It’s liquid fire and dreamless nights and memories trapped in a flask lost at sea just outside Argus; it’s a burn he knows, a burn he’s been _craving_ , a burn that he’s grown to hate. It’s the months of shaking and wanting and resisting that has him hating its call, its allure, the familiarity of its pain most of all.

He doesn’t feel the fingers in his hair, at first. Doesn’t feel the way they twist and yank, doesn’t realize he’s being held in place until the bottleneck is shoved deeper and the taper of the glass is hitting his teeth. He has no choice but to swallow then, his teeth aching, jaw straining, pinpricks bursting from his split lip from the pressure of the bottle. 

Sparks burst and scatter anew when Tyrian nudges his dislocated knee - he flinches, cries out, inhales fire until it’s raging in his sinuses, his lungs, his blood - it’s too much, too long since he’s drank and too much of it spilling past the corners of his lips and too strong of a wildfire seething under his skin. Hates the way it clashes - it sings, it _cries_ , it aches alongside the knife-jabs in his snapped joints that pulse with every swallow - and soon, he’s gagging once, twice, too much of it, too much to handle -

He finally retches, but Tyrian only holds him tighter. Gags and drools past his lips and down his throat, but the bottleneck never recedes. The air is too thick and too heavy and too heady, lost in the wildfire that seethes behind his eyes, down his throat, curling in his gut until it’s back in his mouth again. Qrow only vaguely hears the way Tyrian delights in that, is only dimly aware of something hot and thin and rancid spilling past the glass and onto himself.

His vision tilts, blurs, fades out for a long moment; he isn’t sure if it’s blood or bile, sweat or tears, only that it’s hot and sticky down his cheeks and against his jaw. The bottleneck is gone, he faintly realizes, only coming into relevance now that there’s a hand that clamps tightly over his mouth. He blinks several times, but that does nothing to stop the room from spinning.

“Three months gone to waste,” Tyrian hums, “so you might as well enjoy it.”

Even this close, in Qrow’s space and still pressed to his knee until it’s too numb for him to feel anymore, the words are frayed, distant. He is nothing but a vessel now, nothing in his mind beyond the way it all burns, the way he aches, the way tears trail hot down his cheeks before he can stop them.

Qrow shifts, then sinks his teeth into the side of Tyrian’s hand.

It’s weak, that much he knows. Weak and faint and distant like the way his head spins and ears pound alongside his pulse, but it’s better than nothing. He’ll die fighting if he has to. He’ll keep fighting, even now, even with the fading tide of another dreamless eternity threatening to whisk him away.

Tyrian makes an odd, wavering noise. Qrow’s blood runs cold, and instantly, he lets go. The indents left behind are wet and seethe in a bright crescent over the side of Tyrian’s hand. Qrow dares to glance higher, and he’s met by blown-out pupils, by irises that bleed a wicked violet.

“You’re lucky I didn’t pull teeth.”

The curved back of his stinger slams against Qrow’s temple, and there is nothing left for him to do but succumb to the rushing abyss.

* * *

At first, Clover can’t make sense of it.

The walls are barren. The lightbulb has burned out. There are echo memories on every inch of concrete in the basement they are led to, with stains tinted black and shattered glass left to collect dust. A rusted table nearby with outlines forged through dust and flecks of crimson left behind, and already, Clover knows that this isn’t the first time it’s been used.

He’s prepared for things like this. He’s prepared for the worst, prepared for the inevitability of a war and the insouciance of death, but in the end, nothing could have prepared him for this.

Nothing could have prepared him for finding Qrow that morning.

It takes them three days to finally find him. Clover is used to this - used to dragging his partners out of hell, used to their blood smeared pink against his skin and their flesh pliant under a frantic needle, used to saving who could not have been saved if it wasn’t for skill, for speed, for _luck_. He is used to the hospital visits, used to the glasslike silence and blinding fluorescent lights, because loss and pain and death is an inevitability in this line of work.

But nothing could have prepared him for carrying Qrow out of that basement.

He’s never seen Qrow like this before. He’s seen him battered, seen him shivering from the cold and quaking with a hand clamped over jagged wounds, but never has he looked as fragile as this. Never has he looked a hair away from falling apart, not past the point of return but far past any hopes for a quick, seamless recovery.

Nothing could have prepared Clover for the way Qrow squirmed and kicked the moment he stirred back awake, either. Bleary-eyed and frantic, gasping and trembling, a thousand miles away while his body fought against Clover’s grasp. There’s a story to tell there, but not one that Clover wishes to hear. There’s a story painted red, a story crafted in the form of splintered joints and soiled clothing and trenches torn wide into Qrow’s skin, and it’s nothing that Clover ever wanted to see.

But the last thing he will ever do is abandon Qrow when he needs it the most, and he stays as long as he possibly can.

Clover doesn’t know what it is that shifts out of place inside him that morning. All he knows is that it rattles, that it _cracks,_ and now, all there is left to do is pick up the pieces.

All there is left to do is breathe, and wait, and hope. All there is left to do is let Qrow go when he is asked to, and do what he can now that the responsibility is no longer solely his own. 

Time whirls by quickly, each hour muddled together like a nebulous sky that begs to weep. Clover follows through the motions of keeping this investigation as discrete as it was from the start. It’s just their luck that the safehouse is located in the deepest parts of Mantle where neither human nor faunus roam. The last thing the General needs is another victim to the pile, another score for the smear campaigns that never seem to end.

There is evidence to collect - however few scraps of it they can scavenge from the scene, anyways - and a perp to catch, but for now, that is out of Clover’s hands. Qrow is, as well, whisked away to a private hospital to be mended, to be brought back from wherever he’s drifted off to. It’s out of anyone’s hands, because now there’s healing to be done, doctors to be called who can hopefully patch together what has been splintered and torn.

At the end of the day, Clover finds his place in the waiting room. He makes a few phone calls, all of which James does not answer, and if Clover didn’t know any better, he’d feel betrayed by that fact. 

Instead, he waits until a nurse tells him in a hushed tone that Qrow cannot be seen just yet.

It’s only once he’s stepping out of the hospital that he finds out about the tape left behind.

James calls him, and for a long moment, he forgets how to breathe or how to speak. Forgets how to interrupt, how to ask James not to say a word, because he doesn’t need to know, he doesn’t need that story relayed to him. But there’s hours of footage, perhaps the only real bit of evidence they have, all of it unbearable, all of it on Qrow. 

James is in charge of the investigation, and he is one of the few who does watch the tape. His words are hollow, deadpan, spoken out of necessity, out of willpower. Clover recognizes it well, and he hates that he does. Hates that he can see the figurehead behind it, because it’s never James who speaks like that. 

It’s never James, always his will, always his Semblance, and that’s how Clover knows that whatever is in the tape is nothing that he should watch. Nothing that anyone should watch. But James did, and now, there is work to be done to find the scorpion faunus who started it all.

It’s blatant, that much Clover knows - that much he’s _told_ , since James isn’t stopping, isn’t anywhere close to done relaying what he knows now - because it’s as much of a personal attack as it is a professional one. Questions asked, none of which were answered, and there are no sins to atone, no broken promises to tend to.

He goes on and on until Clover finally interrupts, “James.” He doesn’t know where he found his voice or what keeps it so steady. He doesn’t know what noise it is that James makes, either. It’s just shy of wounded, a little bit ragged, and gently, Clover asks, “Do you need me there?”

He doesn’t immediately turn down the offer. Clover glances over his shoulder, but there is nothing but a long, empty hallway and several shut doors. He is alone, and judging by this allowance, James is, as well. 

It’s always been a struggle for Clover to get James to step down from the pedestal he has put himself on. It’s a struggle to get him to stray away from the figurehead, away from the burden, because that’s all he’s known for so long. It’s a thing that Qrow is particularly good at, though, with his prodding and judging, his antics and his banter until James would finally break into a smile. 

James sighs, and miraculously, he admits, “Yes.”

If it were any other time, Clover might have rejoiced.

Instead, he quietly mumbles back, “Okay.”

* * *

James is alone, and perhaps he shouldn’t be.

It’s not new. It’s not ground-breaking. But the room is too quiet, the apartment too barren, his ribcage too tight and his ears ringing too much for him to focus on anything. There is paperwork to be done, but none of which he can accomplish. There are meetings to reschedule, all of which were pushed off because of the investigation. 

The hardest part was finding Qrow while being silent. His Scroll had gone offline, later found shattered in the snow alongside a needle and a handful of feathers just outside of a nightclub. James knows better than to assume that this is a first offender; no one can catch Qrow off-guard, especially not as a bird, not when the only people who know are his surrogate children and his two partners.

His suspicions were confirmed when the tape was discovered.

He recognizes the culprit anywhere. Knows that voice, knows the stinger that glistens brightly under a new plate of metal, knows the way his eyes spark violet when he’s particularly fascinated. He knows who Tyrian Callows is, and so do his Operatives, and he also knows that it will be no small feat trying to find him.

Causing an uproar is not an option. The atmosphere is too delicate, his position too precarious, and something as public as this would do more harm than good.

It’ll be a few days until he gets any status report on the search for the serial killer who has been eluding them for so long. It’ll be perhaps another day or so before they’re allowed to see Qrow. It’ll be another sleepless night before he must attend to his obligations and then somehow scavenge for spare time to visit Qrow. 

But for now, it’s only been a few hours, and he can still hear the way Qrow screamed himself ragged.

It rings like a bell, echoes like the broken surface of the lake, lingering long after the holoscreen was whisked away despite him wishing that it wouldn’t. He still hears it, hears the way flesh would squelch and part, hears the way bones would strain and crack, hears the way Qrow gagged around a bottleneck long and thin -

“James. _James._ ” 

It hits him out of the abyss, and he flinches away, but Clover only holds tighter. He doesn’t know when Clover got there, doesn’t remember hearing him come in, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Clover keeps him there, keeps him from swaying and falling when he feels as if Remnant is no longer tilted upright on its axis. 

“James,” Clover tentatively says, “it’s okay now.”

It isn’t, James would insist, it isn’t okay when their partner is in the hospital and a murderer is out on the loose and the state of Mantle only grows weaker by the day. It isn’t okay, because he still hears Qrow, still hears the laughter that accompanied it, still hears the questions that dripped like venom until Qrow couldn’t stay conscious any longer -

“It is,” Clover says. James blinks, and he’s suddenly aware of the hands that cling to his coat, the arms around him, the lips against his temple as Clover soothes, “It’s okay. Qrow’s safe now, he’s okay.”

James tucks his nose against the crook of Clover’s neck, breathes in his cologne and the faint traces of detergent that Qrow always insisted on using. He doesn’t know why his hands shake, but that is the only part of him that betrays the way his heart is pounding. 

He isn’t sure if he can say that Qrow is safe, because now there is a face and a name attached to the string of murders down in Mantle. It’s too convenient to believe anything else, too convenient to say that an interrogation geared towards Amity doesn’t coincide with the deliberate murders of notorious critics and activists. Safe is a perilous word; safe is a perilous absolute.

But as Clover holds tight to him and continues to tell him soothing nothings, he can let himself fleetingly believe that they are safe for the time being.

* * *

For a long while, there is silence.

He is lost in an abyssal solitude for a while, never quite conscious, never fully lucid. He is whisked away in oceans deep, but it’s a different kind of quietude now, a different kind of silence that greets him whenever he fleetingly wakes. The first few times, he only sees white - white on his hands, white like a second skin, white in his eyes before they spark in an unholy spectrum when he tries to move.

Distantly, he hears voices. They murmur soft things, hopeful things, something about recovering Aura and casts and scars that must be tended to later before he finally drifts off. There is only ocean water in his dreams to greet him, languid and all-encompassing; there is only seafoam in his veins, thick and tingling until it finally quells the aches in his body.

The first time he truly wakes, the room is dim, and he is not alone.

He doesn’t see who it is, at first, only that they are there, and he isn’t ready. Not again, he frantically thinks, not like this, not when he can’t move, not when he can’t _see_. He shifts, squirms, but his limbs are made out of lead, head made out of cotton, and distantly, he hears himself make a helpless noise.

There are hands on him, but they aren’t rough. They are warm, and they are gentle, and they keep him from moving, stop him from agitating the stiff splints around each finger. The ache registers then, not pounding as it once was but thrumming faintly all the same, and when he blinks, he can faintly make out a familiar face.

A voice follows, but he isn’t sure what it says. He only hears the pulse that seethes hot in his throat and the frantic beeping of a heart rate monitor nearby. He swallows thickly, listens to the voice that murmurs, listens to the words that flow as gently as the fingers that brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Finally awake?” he hears Clover ask him, and he can’t help the sigh he makes in the wake of the tension that melts off his shoulders. He leans faintly into the fingers against his temple, and above him, Clover says with a small huff, “I’m taking that as a yes.”

Qrow catches the faint whisper of movement on the other side of him, and then there is one gloved hand against his bicep. James’ thumb caresses in slow circles against him, gentle as if even the slightest touch has the chance of shattering him anew. And maybe he will, he idly thinks as he marvels in a touch far too delicate that he is used to, maybe he can let himself break now that he’s safe.

It’s surreal to him now, the safety, the comfort. It’s surreal to see the way James sidles closer to him, to hear the way James’ voice rumbles low in his throat in the effort to stay quiet as he points out, “This hardly counts as _awake._ ”

Clover glances upwards with a soft smile. He looks ragged, drawn out for miles and back again, and yet still, he is capable of smiling that endearingly lopsided smile of his. He says something to James then, lilted with what might be amusement, heavy with what could be relief, but Qrow hears none of it anymore. There is no need for him to fight. There is no need for him to hold himself afloat now that there is a soft place to fall to.

His eyes slide blissfully shut, and he listens only to the soothing murmur of their voices as they talk.

* * *

James once called Qrow the world’s worst patient.

Clover didn’t realize that he actually meant it. 

He doesn’t actually know much of where Qrow came from or what ideals he was raised by, but it doesn’t take very extensive guessing to understand where the aversion to hospitals comes from. It isn’t long after his Aura sufficiently recovers before he’s lucid enough to begin the escape attempts, and it isn't long after that until James approves of Clover’s request for a vacation.

Neither of the twins were good with hospitals, James once told him, something like nostalgia on his face; neither of them knew how to stay still or how to remain compliant even through the worst of whatever illness sent them there to begin with. It’s one of those things that James talks fleetingly about sometimes, another bit of history that Clover can only hope will be told to him through reminiscence. 

Qrow is nothing like he once was. He is frustrated, and rightfully so, because there isn’t much that he can do on his own anymore. It must be harrowing, Clover considers the first time he catches Qrow out of bed, it must be daunting when he’s had nothing but a lifetime of patching himself back together after bearing the worst of it. He is not anywhere close to begin that path to healing, because a wound does not heal while the knife is still lodged within. 

But he does try. He tries, even if it fails him; he tries to walk, even if his knee can’t support him; he tries, but he can’t hold onto anything with each finger in a splint, and that hits the hardest once the withdrawals finally kick in.

Clover remembers these. Remembers the first few weeks when Qrow arrived to Atlas, remembers the suspiciously lowered Aura levels, remembers the very first time he found Qrow quaking and panting and murmuring half-coherent confessions that he wants. Remembers holding Qrow’s hands then, remembers keeping them from reaching, keeping them from doing what Qrow will regret much later when he is no longer wanting badly enough to ache.

They are back to square one, with Qrow’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, skin clammy in his hands, tears hot in his shirt. They are back to coping, to enduring, and Clover doesn’t need to know where the liquor originally came from. He knows, and he offers nothing but patience, and that is all Qrow needs. 

Clover is there for most things. He’s there for each cleansing and rebandaging of the wounds, there for the doctors and their hopeful words, there for their speculations on what will come. Inevitably, there will be scarring. There will also be problems down the road, as all things go, but Qrow seems to expect that.

The cold weather won’t help with the kneecap they had to jerk back into place or with the fingers that are slowly mending themselves, but they will recover in time, however slowly that it takes. As long as he allows himself rest and recuperation and carries through each session of physical therapy they set for him in the many months to come.

Clover has never seen Qrow look so downtrodden, but at the very least, he is nodding rather than arguing.

The narcotics do wonders of lulling Qrow into a dreamless sleep. It’s one of the rare few moments that he is offered respite. It’s one of the very few lulls of each long, laborious night, and for that, Clover is grateful. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept properly, or the last time he’s slept outside of a chair, but he doesn’t mind it.

There’s very little he wouldn’t do for Qrow, just as there’s very little that Qrow wouldn’t do for him. It’s worth the way Qrow would nuzzle just under his jaw and press what might be a kiss there, his own way of showing thanks. It’s worth the way Qrow murmurs a promise against his skin, that he’ll be okay, that he’ll be good while Clover finally gets some rest.

Qrow has never broken a promise - not willingly, not deliberately - and it’s enough for Clover to finally succumb to a restless sleep before him.

He doesn’t dream. Not anymore, not when he’s a hair-trigger away from waking now. When he does awaken, they aren’t alone, but it’s not a nurse or a doctor this time. Now, it’s James who enters the room, James who settles by Qrow’s side and entertains him while he waits for the next dosage of painkillers to lull him to sleep.

He’s had other obligations, and neither Clover nor Qrow fault him for it. Relentless meetings and paperwork and the never-ending string of murders down in Mantle will not stop for Qrow. But tonight is the one bit of allowance that James can afford, and neither of them take it for granted.

Clover watches the way they speak. Listens to their banter, the familiarity of it, the inside jokes and the teasing on Qrow’s end that never fails to lift the weight from James’ shoulders. In many ways, they collide rather than coalesce, but that’s part of the appeal. That’s what draws Clover closer, because it’s a side of James he’s never seen, and a side of Qrow that never fails to bleed over to him.

“You’re a terrible influence,” James tells him, time and time again, and Qrow only snorts and quips something maddening in return.

Clover only reaches out once Qrow begins to doze off. Not for his hand, not anymore, but for his wrist instead. He runs his thumb along the skin there, over the outline of his veins and against the vulnerable hollow, and wonders whose pulse he’s feeling. It’s a reminder that he seeks out often now. A reminder that Qrow is still there, no longer stuck somewhere in Mantle but within arm’s reach in Atlas.

A reminder that Qrow is okay, that he is _alive._

When Clover meets James’ eyes, there is nothing but understanding.

* * *

It takes a long while before Qrow is discharged.

He’s doing better than he has been. His Aura has long since replenished, and the nights he spends quaking and wanting are beginning to lessen and dim, and now all he has left to do is heal the remaining damage. There’s no real way of telling the severity of the long-term complications that will arise, they tell him, but it won’t be anything that will keep him from his duty as a Huntsman.

So he’s allowed to go home, and he’s once again reminded of why he hates hospitals.

There’s something distinctly sobering about stepping foot in their shared apartment for the first time in weeks. The change is sudden, almost too jarring; there is no quiet thrum of machinery, no ticking of an IV drip, no ever-looming haze of narcotics there to tilt the world off-center. There is clutter, there is familiarity, there is life.

It’s a reprieve as much as it is a new sentence. It’s a relief as much as it is a burden.

The silence is the worst of the change, but that too dulls with time.

Sleepless nights are commonplace. There are no distractions anymore, no horrors next door or emergencies down the hall to remind him of where he was. There is only silence that engulfs him like the shadows of the night, all-encompassing and inescapable. There is only silence until there isn’t, quietude until there isn’t, peace until there’s tearing flesh and broken bones and flames down his throat until all he sees is white.

Each time it happens, Clover is there. Each time, Harbinger must be coaxed out of his shaking grip. Each time, Qrow is brought back from a quiet room and stained floor and splintered chair with hands in his own and a voice reminding him that _it’s okay, it’s done, it’s over now._

James is there when he can afford it. He does try to stay more often, after Clover spends time to sway him away from work and Qrow does his best to complain until James gives in. If there’s one thing Qrow misses the most besides the sense of normalcy he once had, it’s the warmth of his own home.

It’s a warmth akin to a midsummer evening or a late morning sunrise, one that swathes and soothes and quiets every thought. It’s a warmth unique to Clover and James, something gentler than tropical waters but stronger than the glow of a lit fireplace; it’s something familiar, something that he’s dangerously close to calling home, now that he’s out of the hospital and back in their shared apartment.

Home is nothing like the pristine hell he’s been tethered to. Home isn’t quite here, either, because Atlas was never a home, but it’s James and Clover who convince him to stay.

He missed the way James would mould against him perfectly, the metal side of him warmer than usual while his flesh hand traces idle patterns over his skin. He missed how easily Clover fit into it, as well, with his nose tucked against the crown of Qrow’s head and his lips brushing gentle sentiments against his hair. He missed the late nights and the early mornings, even if he used to complain profusely about it.

They talk, usually, while Qrow curls further in the blankets, nuzzles into the empty space they leave behind. About work, about breakfast, about everything, about nothing. Qrow likes to listen until he drifts back off to sleep, and allows himself to be awoken not too long afterwards by the smell of coffee.

There’s exercises to be done, of course, to coax the strength back into both his hands and his knee. He complains profusely, but he carries through regardless. It’s a necessity, just as many things are. He must deal with the pain, must learn and adapt and heal so that he may hold Harbinger without losing his strength.

There isn’t a moment where Harbinger isn’t nearby, always within arm’s reach for protection, for comfort. It’s the only thing that keeps him company, but rarely is Clover ever gone for very long during the weeks following Qrow’s discharge. Clover is there for as long as he can be; James is there for as long as he can afford to be.

On the rare occasion when they are both home, Qrow can allow himself to believe that recovery isn’t that big of a far-fetched fantasy.

But some nights, it’s not Qrow who needs the reassurance. He’ll be cleared to go back to work soon, but James is hesitant. So, so hesitant, and although he never voices it, Qrow has long since learned his tells.

He knows what it is on James’ mind late one night when he stirs awake. He knows what it is James is doing when he reaches for any bit of skin he can reach, just as Qrow reaches for Harbinger despite the way his fingers ache. He feels James’ lips pressed to his nape, feels the fingertips that trail down his spine, a soothing touch that he’s come to adore. James is mindful to avoid the newly forged scars, knowing full well that they ache and seethe every night. 

Qrow knows what it is that James is thinking of when he feels the tremble of his fingers against his skin. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s still there, still evident, still enough for him to recognize. It’s the faint echoes of a memory he can’t let go, not anytime soon, not like this. A memory neither of them can let go, really, not when it’s burned into Qrow, ingrained in his skin, moulded into the very bones that still need time to heal.

He blinks. His eyes burn, vision frays, and he doesn’t know when it got this way. Doesn’t know when James’ hand came to settle on one quaking shoulder, either. He feels James’ lips on his skin, still there, still a tether. Feels the words they brush against him, whisper-soft and atmosphere-heavy, but James will never say them. 

It’s not that James is too prideful to apologize out loud. He just knows not to. Spoken apologies are something that Qrow has learned never to trust, and another thing that James learned never to say. But if there’s one way to apologize, it’s through this.

If there’s any one way to apologize, it’s through each lingering touch, as if Qrow is something made to break. Something made to _protect_. 

He knows who still lurks out there. He knows who he still has to fight. He knows, and there is nothing that stops the cruel tendrils of dread that curl low in his gut, but that won’t stop him from fighting when he needs to.

It also won’t stop James, but it certainly will keep him up at night.

So Qrow lets himself be lulled to sleep once again. It gets easier over time, knowing that the both of them are there. Knowing that Clover is a loose floorboard or distant car alarm away from waking up, and knowing that James is never too far behind him. It isn’t a common occurrence, but it’s enough.

James holds him and Clover close until he can’t afford to any longer, and that’s more than enough.

* * *

Qrow is optimistic, but not dangerously so.

He calls himself realistic. If Clover wasn’t so considerate, he might disagree and call him paranoid. If James knew how to soothe him, he would probably agree and move on. But eventually, there comes a time where neither Clover nor James are home, and Qrow is ready that night.

He’s ready by the time twilight comes and the familiar golden glow pierces the night.

Qrow couldn’t fool himself into thinking that he would be left alone even if he tried. Not so easily, not so quickly, not when there’s still secrets to spill and lives on the line. He steps out into the living room and finds a familiar face, and despite the white-hot burst of dread under his skin, he’s ready for anything.

All things considered, it should be a fair fight.

They’ve been here before - matched in the same way, fighting with everything on the line, with orders to uphold, promises to keep, memories to be shattered. There are no drugs, no poison, no liabilities. Qrow is alone, and already, his hand finds Harbinger at the small of his back, perhaps the only comfort he’ll ever know when he is alone now.

It still hasn’t left him. Not since those nights, not since he tasted fire, not since he finally regained enough strength to wield Harbinger like he used to. He can’t let it happen again. He won’t let it happen again. It’s a resolve like none other, this anger, this hatred; Tyrian took from him just as he took from Tyrian, and now, there’s a score to settle. 

Tyrian’s eyes narrow as he deploys the Queen’s Servants, a mad cackle creasing the corners of his eyes. It should be a fair fight.

It should be, but it’s not.

Qrow fights like a man with nothing left to lose. He fights like a murderer, fights like a monster, fights like it’s the only thing he knows. His Aura sparks like electricity arcing from one snipped wire to the next when Tyrian catches his shoulder, then twirls on his prosthetic tail to kick at his side. Qrow pays him no mind, only lunges forward with a snarl, because there is nothing to lose, nothing to protect, no one but them.

At first, Tyrian only giggles, dodges, twirls and dances like turbulent flames around his victim. There is undeniable pleasure in him, a thrill like that of a predator finally going in for its kill. And he does, a few times, swift and lethal and everything that Qrow has long since come to anticipate. Tyrian fights not like a man with nothing left to lose but as a predator with nothing left to kill, and soon, it’s over.

Soon, it’s over, because Qrow lands a punch - it’s not elegant, not beautiful, not even really precise. But it’s enough to finally shatter Tyrian’s Aura, sending it shimmering like shards of glass against the bleeding moonlight. There’s a click, a whisper, the curve of his blade now pressed to Tyrian’s throat; there is red that licks along silver, trailing thinly, slowly.

At that, Tyrian smiles.

Harbinger is bright, too bright, brighter than the moon’s shattered pieces strewn across the sky. It’s over, but it shouldn’t be. It’s over, but it _can’t_ be. It can’t be that easy, shouldn’t be this easy, because death is too merciful, death is too _kind_. Qrow is breathing hard, aching in his joints, in old scars and new wounds, in his pulse that jumps between the bones of his wrist. 

Only then does he register the ruin. The broken furniture, the gouged carpet, the splintered wood and the memories on the walls left shattered against the floor. Tyrian has yet to move, his tail caught under Qrow’s foot, the Queen’s Servants grinding hard against Harbinger’s blade at either side of his throat. Any closer, and his blood is on Qrow’s hands. Any more movement, and the skin that parts itself thinly along the length of the blade will yawn wide.

Qrow has no idea how long they stay like this. Time seems to freeze, but the clock continues steadily onwards, a steady tick, tick, tick in a too-heavy atmosphere. Blood continues to flow, a slow drip, drip, drip along a too-heavy blade.

And then, the door clicks open.

Qrow glances sharply at the intrusion. It must be a stroke of his own luck, or perhaps an echo of good luck, or maybe even some cosmic joke. Tyrian bursts into uncontrollable laughter, swiftly taking advantage of the distraction to twist under the blade and kick Qrow off. Qrow lurches backwards, the remains of his Aura shimmering and bursting.

He doesn’t notice that Tyrian is right below him, stinger poised ready to strike, but that doesn’t matter.

There is a gunshot that rings through the night.

Then, it’s all over.

Where Tyrian’s head was, there is now a painting of abstract vermillion, bright and glistening against the walls, the carpet, the front of his shirt. Where the door remains ajar, James stands tall, Due Process still pointed at where Tyrian once stood. His eyes are cold, unyielding, true to his name, frighteningly close to the figurehead he is meant to be.

Then Clover is rushing past him, and Qrow forgets how to breathe. It’s over, but it shouldn’t be. It’s over, but it can’t be. It’s over, and he tastes copper, and he isn’t sure how Clover manages to tug him away from the mess. His vision frays, heart pounds, ears ring until the only thing he can hear are his own shuddering breaths, his own wheezing gasps, the pull of blood through the chambers of his own heart.

It takes a long while before each gasping breath starts to come easier than the last. Maybe it’s an hour, maybe it’s the whole night, maybe it’s an eternity of gasping and quaking and letting himself be held. But soon, he becomes dimly aware of Clover’s chest pressed firm against his back, holding him upright, keeping him from falling.

Under one ear, he can hear the thrum of Dust under James’ sternum, cylinders and wires meeting bones and veins somewhere down the center. He is only vaguely aware of the words as they come, soothing whispers that wash over him like a breeze through an open window. The both of them are there, reminding him that he’s safe, that he did well, that it’s over now.

If Qrow closes his eyes and wills himself to take deep, steadying breaths, he can almost believe them.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they all lived happily ever after ♡
> 
> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


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